


Standing in the Light

by wildfoot



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alice Hoffman's Blackbird House, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Getting Together, M/M, finding yourself, mentions of past relationships & breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildfoot/pseuds/wildfoot
Summary: “You gotta find something to distract yourself with, man,” Jonny said. He was up in Canada, on the lake, actually on the lake at that very moment, and Patrick could distantly hear the water lapping against his boat. “Something that isn’t hockey.”“What,” Patrick said dryly, “is the fishing so bad that you just had to call and tell me this?”“Pat.” Jonny sounded so serious, so honestly concerned that Patrick sighed.“All right, Jonny,” he said quietly. “What sort of thing do you suggest? If you say fishing—”Jonny snorted, and there was a hint of laughter in his reply. “I think you’d go crazy before the fish bit,” he teased. “But, no, I wasn’t going to say that. Just, anything, Kaner. Take a trip somewhere on your own. Take up some weird new hobby, anything. Just to, like— Get to know yourself again. Get to know who you are without her, y’know?”Patrick was silent for a long moment, but he thought he understood. “Yeah, Jonny,” he said eventually. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”





	Standing in the Light

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Blackhawks Summer Fic Fest!](http://coffeekristin.tumblr.com/post/161101119308/blackhawks-summer-fic-fest-2017) Originally I'd planned to write one of the game 5 prompts, but, uh, I've been reading Alice Hoffman's _Blackbird House_ and this happened instead. It also grew much longer than I'd originally intended, but on the plus side--no need to have read the book to understand what's going on!
> 
> Many thanks to my good friend Crow for reading this over for me, even though she is not in the fandom.

> _ “It was the light that Emma remembered as so very different from city light, thin and yellow, with flecks of gold as the afternoon stretched on. Apricot light, her mother used to call it. Peach light. Summertime light that made a person forget gray skies and city life. The air was sweeter there. The cardinals were a deeper scarlet than their city cousins, and when the crickets called, it was possible to feel the vibration of their song. Each time they opened the car doors and crossed the grass, it was as though they had stepped off the globe, as though the world had stopped turning, as though they might, for a little while at least, be safe.” _
> 
> -Alice Hoffman,  _ Blackbird House, _ “Wish You Were Here”

—— 

Patrick found the house by accident, the summer that Amanda left. That was the catalyst.

—— 

He sat on the corner of their— _ his _ —bed, feet planted firmly on the floor, and watched her carefully packing her bags. It was morning and the early sun caught on her hair as it fell over her shoulders. He noticed then that she was beautiful. How had he forgotten that? Patrick didn’t know, and he didn’t speak.

Amanda set a brightly colored scarf into her suitcase. Patrick remembered that his sister Erica had given it to her for her birthday one year, the same year he’d won the Cup for the third time. He thought distantly that he remembered all of the important things in relation to those years, and wondered if that was part of the problem.

She smoothed her hands over the scarf, zipped the suitcase closed, and then turned to look at him, for the first time all morning. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how to get the words out.

That was okay. Patrick didn’t, either.

Her phone buzzed, once and then twice, and the moment was broken. Amanda glanced down at the screen and sighed. “My cousin’s here,” she said finally. “He’s come to help me move everything.”

She reached for her suitcase and made her way toward the door. Patrick didn’t move a muscle, kept himself as still as he could. There was a part of him that wanted to reach out for her and to call her back.

There was a bigger part of him that was relieved to see her go. He was tired of pretending otherwise.

When she reached the door, she paused, hand over the knob. She turned to look at him again and said, soft and sad, “I hope you find what makes you happy.”

Then she was gone, disappearing into the darkened hallway. He heard the door close as she let herself out.

Patrick flopped backward onto the bed, arms spread wide, and stared up at the ceiling. 

“Me too,” he said to the empty room.

——

When Amanda left, everyone had words of comfort or advice for Patrick. It was one more shitty thing on top of a shitty end to an only-okay season, and Patrick knew his family and friends were worried for him.

“Come to visit,” Sharpy said, voice tinny in Patrick’s ear. “Abby and the girls would love to see you for a couple of weeks. We’ll make a trip of it—head out to the lake for a weekend, go swimming. I’ll beat you at golf.” Sharpy’s tone was warm with good humor, but Patrick heard the worry in it.

He shook his head, and then remembered that Sharpy couldn’t see him.

“Naw, man,” he replied, forcing levity. “I’ll save you from the embarrassment of terrible loss. I’ve been getting good at golf.” 

Of course, the  _ reason _ he was getting good at golf wasn’t—

Patrick cut the thought short. The sting of another first round exit was still too raw, like the hole Amanda left in his life. Or maybe like the hole she  _ hadn’t _ left.

“Peeks—”

“I’m okay, Sharpy,” Patrick said. He had to blink back the sudden burn of tears in his eyes, for Sharpy’s voice was so gentle. “Honest. Just gonna hang here in Chicago, I think. I wanna work with the trainers for a bit longer, anyway.”

“Is it your wrist again?” 

Patrick grimaced. Sharpy had known that he’d had trouble with it again this season, and that Patrick had only just avoided needing surgery. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Docs wanna keep an eye on it for awhile, y’know?” That wasn’t even a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. They wanted  _ Patrick  _ to keep an eye on it, and contact them if anything was wrong.

He begged off after a few more minutes of Sharpy’s mother-henning only to find himself speaking to Erica, and then Seabs, and then Artemi over the course of the next few hours.

“Come to Buffalo,” his sister said, but Buffalo wasn’t home anymore, and hadn’t been for awhile, and Patrick couldn’t bear going back for very long. For all he loved his family, the thought of them coddling him was suddenly suffocating.

“I’m in Chicago for another week,” Seabs said. “Let me take you to lunch.” Patrick couldn’t exactly say no to that, even though he was certain that Seabs had been speaking to Sharpy about him and the concern is his voice was too heavy.

“You come to Russia,” Artemi told him cheerfully. “I take you for good food, good vodka.” For a moment, Patrick was tempted—Russia was about as far away from everyone’s worry as he could get, but it would require hours on a plane. Hours Patrick didn’t think he could handle. He spent more than enough time on planes during the season.

It was Jonny who had the best advice, and later Patrick thought he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d broken up with his own girl only a year ago, and he’d always understood Patrick on a level that no one else could compare to. When all else failed, it was Kane and Toews.

“You gotta find something to distract yourself with, man,” Jonny said. He was up in Canada, on the lake, actually on the lake at that very moment, and Patrick could distantly hear the water lapping against his boat. “Something that isn’t hockey.”

“What,” Patrick said dryly, “is the fishing so bad that you just had to call and tell me this?”

“Pat.” Jonny sounded so serious, so honestly concerned that Patrick sighed.

“All right, Jonny,” he said quietly. “What sort of thing do you suggest? If you say fishing—”

Jonny snorted, and there was a hint of laughter in his reply. “I think you’d go crazy before the fish bit,” he teased. “But, no, I wasn’t going to say that. Just, anything, Kaner. Take a trip somewhere on your own. Take up some weird new hobby, anything. Just to, like— Get to know yourself again. Get to know who you are without her, y’know?”

Patrick was silent for a long moment, but he thought he understood. “Yeah, Jonny,” he said eventually. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

—— 

Later, with Doc Emrick’s voice low on the television, Patrick aimlessly browsed twitter. He’d been trying to take Jonny’s advice to heart, though there wasn’t anything that struck his fancy so far. He’d considered plenty of hobbies, progressively more ridiculous hobbies, before discarding them with a sigh:

Knitting? Just the thought made his wrist ache.

Ceramics? That would require a class, and just the idea of walking into any studio for one seemed exhausting.

Writing, painting, riding horses, collecting fancy cars, those creepy ball-jointed dolls—

Nothing seemed appealing to Patrick, and he was about to give up and focus on the game when he saw the listing. He clicked the link.

It was for a house, a centuries-old thing on the outer reaches of Cape Cod, at the edge of a small town. There was a pond on the property, pictured with light glinting off of the water lilies, and a view of the ocean, framed by wild-looking trees, and quiet, dusty old paths. It had started off as a farm, some time in the eighteenth century. Patrick clicked through the pictures and was enthralled.

_ A bit of a fixer-upper, _ the page said,  _ but with working plumbing and electricity; furniture included, _ and almost before he knew what he was doing, Patrick was shooting an email to the real estate agent, inquiring about the house, and whether there was any chance he could see it.

He resolutely did not think about how he had no experience with renovations, or farms, or Massachusetts, outside of TD Garden and whichever hotel the Hawks stayed at whenever they went to Boston.

But the thought of something to build—

Patrick liked that.

—— 

A week later, he drove his rental car up a dirt road toward the old house. It was morning and the sun was still low in the sky, beams of light catching on the dust kicked up under the tires. The grass on either side of the road was still wet with dew. Everything appeared golden-flecked and glowing. 

With the windows rolled down, Patrick could smell the earth all around him, and, more faintly, the hint of salt from the sea. The beach was nearby, and Patrick thought about how the real estate agent had told him that it was said that the farm’s first owner, Coral Hadley, had hated the sea, had never looked it again, after her husband and son had been lost to a sudden nor’easter.

He wondered how he’d feel, in her place and then realized—

He’d lost Amanda, and wasn’t thinking about her at all. 

“I think I loved hockey more,” Patrick said aloud. His voice seemed muted, drowned out by the light all around. He wondered what that said about him. He wondered what Erica would say, or his mother. Or Jonny.

The sound of birdsong pierced the silence, and Patrick was grateful for the distraction. 

Sitting on the fencepost that marked the edge of the property was a white bird. It seemed to turn its dark eyes upon him and then—after a moment of stillness, where even the summer breeze seemed to die, and Patrick felt himself slowing the car—it spread its wings and was gone, disappearing into the sky like a wisp of cloud.

——

“I’ll take it.”

Patrick had not needed to think very much about it before he made the decision to purchase the house. It wasn’t his smartest decision, probably, but—

He wanted this more than he had wanted many things recently.

—— 

After the deed was his, Patrick stood in the kitchen of his new house, hands planted on his hips. He looked around, had been looking around for hours now. In some ways, it was hard to believe that this place was his. It was hard to believe that he’d even  _ bought _ such a place as this. Patrick knew that it was very different from his Chicago condo, and from the house he’d once owned in Buffalo.

But he liked it here, in this quiet corner of Massachusetts, in this house that looked like it had been home to lives well-lived. 

“Fixer-upper” was not exactly an accurate term, he found. The outside looked like it needed a fresh coat of paint; the white siding was chipped and grey with dirt and weathered in places, and the front garden was overgrown with weeds and grasses. 

Inside, it wasn’t so bad, either. The walls, too, needed paint, and the applewood flooring looked like it had seen better days, as scuffed and scratched as it was, but Patrick didn’t mind. He reached out to run his fingers over the heavy old kitchen table. It had come with the house, the real estate agent had told him, built by the house’s second owner, a man who’d had his leg bitten off by a halibut as big as a horse.

It was said that he’d spat the fish’s teeth out for years afterward.

“Maybe I’ll find some of them,” he said aloud to the house, laughing. It was a silly thought, but it buoyed Patrick as he finally sat down to compile a list.

——

In the morning, Patrick drove into town. There was a general store on the corner of main street, an old building with wide glass windows marking the shopfront. The stairs creaked when he stepped up, and there was a cold blast of air that washed over his face as he stepped inside.

There was a woman standing at the register, older with hair greying at the temples and kind eyes. She grinned when she saw Patrick.

“You’re the one who bought the old Blackbird Farm,” she said, matter of factly. 

“Oh,” Patrick said. His eyes were wide. “How did you—?”

She laughed. “In a town like this, word travels quickly, and that house has been on the market awhile. I’m Callie Maguire.” 

“Patrick,” he replied, and shook her hand when she reached out for him. Her grip was firm, and Patrick couldn’t help but grin himself. She didn’t seem to recognize him or, if she did, she didn’t say. It was nice.

“What brings you in today?” she asked, settling back against the counter, the till at her elbow.

“Groceries,” he said with a laugh. “And then I’m off to the hardware store. Got painting to do.”

Callie smiled, a little wistfully. “It’ll do that place good.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Lots of history with that old house.”

Patrick couldn’t help leaning in himself. “The real estate agent hadn’t told me much,” he said. “Only that it was built in the 1770s, and there was an owner who’d got bitten by a giant fish.”

Callie laughed. “Oh, there was that,” she said. “And many other things, too. Always are with a house like that. The girls used to say that if you could work up the nerve to run ‘round the old pear tree in the front yard, your true love would come walking up the pathway.”

“Oh? You ever try that?” Patrick grinned. His sisters would get a kick out of that story, he thought.

Callie just laughed again. “Who hasn’t?”

They continued to chatter as Patrick moved up and down the aisles, filling a basket with enough food to last him the week. There wasn’t much that his nutritionists would approve of here, but he could make the trip to a bigger town later. When Callie slipped a chocolate bar into Patrick’s bags, on the house, he only smiled.

——

As he moved through the town on his errands, Patrick learned a lot about his new house:

A witch with bright red shoes had been its mistress once, and she was said to have cows which produced the sweetest milk. She’d married the man who’d lost his leg to the halibut.

Their daughter planted the halibut’s teeth and plucked rubies out of the ground, and it had bought them passage to California.

One woman was said to have found a great sea-monster that had been terrorizing the Cape, and another to have put her grandson’s wife through a series of tests, just to prove she was worthy.

The very first owner of the house, Coral Hadley, had planted fields and fields of sweet peas which persisted still to this day, their fragrance wafting through the air. Patrick had walked through them that very morning, and had run his hands over the pink and white flowers.

And in every story there was this:

A blackbird turned white by sea-foam, like a ghost, the dear companion of young Isaac Hadley who’d been lost at sea and broke Coral’s heart.

Patrick had seen that bird. 

——

“A garden? What do you know about gardening?” Erica’s voice was skeptical, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Not a thing, obviously. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Why would you think  _ I _ know anything about gardening?” She paused. “And  _ painting, _ Patrick? Renovation! Shit, Pat, what the hell?”

“Look—”

“Pat,” Erica said, and her voice gentled. “If this is about Amanda—”

“No!”

“But—”

“No, Erica. I promise.” It sort of had been about her, at first. But it had been more about him. “Look, I had some advice from Jonny.”

Erica snorted. “Gardening advice? Maybe you should’ve called him about when to pick blueberries.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “He thought I should find a hobby.”

Erica was silent for a long moment, and Patrick could imagine the look on her face. She was judging him. Hard.

“I’m pretty sure this is not what he meant by that.”

He rolled his eyes again. Not that she wasn’t right, but Patrick wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Patrick,” she said, sighing. Her voice pulled him from those thoughts, and he focused on the phone. “I know you said it’s not about Amanda, but you know you can talk to me right? You can talk to any of us.”

“I know,” Patrick murmured. There was a basket at his feet, filled with the sweet pea flowers. The plants were nearly as tall as he, and he’d read online that they could grow nearly eight feet by the end of the season. “I promise, Erica,” he said again, “that I’m fine. Maybe it was a little bit of me running away. But I like it here. It’s… A change. But a nice one. I think I needed it.”

Erica didn’t reply for a long time. But eventually, she said, “Okay, Pat. I trust you.”

Patrick grinned. In the distance, he heard the blackbird’s song.

——

Clearing the front garden had been the hardest part, but also maybe the best. He understood now why Jonny liked the plants and the cool soil on his hands. It was calming in a way few things outside of hockey were, and Patrick’s head had been mercifully quiet as he pulled the poison ivy—carefully—from the ground and bagged them to be carted away.

There was still much to do, and Patrick had been told there was much that he wouldn’t be able to plant till next spring as late in the season as it was now. Privately, he hoped that it would be too late to plant again next year; it would be the result of a long playoff run, and he was tired of first round exits.

He shook his head and stood with a groan.

It was July now, and he had a basket full of blueberries. He thought, whimsically, that he might like to try making jam. Callie had told him that the small shed near to the house had originally been a summer kitchen, so that cooking could be done without leaving the main house sweltering from the heat of the stove.

He lifted the basket and balanced it on his hip. The blueberry plants were hearty and vibrant, and had been on the property for decades. He plucked one and popped it into his mouth, savoring the taste, as he stepped back to circle the nearby pear tree.

Its fruit was just beginning to come in, an odd vivid red. Apparently, eating one would give you the truth whether or not you wanted to know it. The thought made Patrick grin.

That was when he heard the hum of an engine coming up the old dirt road. It was a car he didn’t recognize, but the driver was not a mystery to Patrick.

Jonny’s arm dangled idly from the window before retreating briefly as he parked.

In the branches above Patrick, the blackbird settled, dark eyes peering down.

——

“I hadn’t believed Erica when she said this was what you were up to,” Jonny admitted as they sat at Patrick’s kitchen table, picking at the blueberries. His skin was golden in the light filtering through the window, and the sight of him left something warm settled in his belly.

Patrick grinned sheepishly. “Well, y’know. It’s a hobby.”

“Not what I meant,” he laughed. “But it’s nice here.” He eyed Patrick carefully, taking in the sunburn flushing his cheeks and the freckles dotted across his nose. “You look happy,” he added. His eyes were very dark, but they met Patrick’s easily.

Patrick’s grin turned warm. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.” Happier now that Jonny was here, he didn’t say.

Jonny settled back in the chair, stretching his legs. Patrick had reupholstered the cushions, and though it had taken him a few tries to get it right, they looked passable now. Jonny certainly wasn’t complaining, at any rate.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, nudging Jonny’s foot with his own, “you can help me out. It’s not easy, doing all this work on your own.”

“You didn’t hire someone?”

“That would defeat the purpose of a  _ hobby, _ Jonny,” Patrick said archly, ignoring Jonny as he rolled his eyes. “C’mon, man. You like gardens. That’s what I’m still working on. The guys at the nursery said it was too late to plant tons of things, but there’s still lots to do.”

Jonny did like gardens, and he perked up in interest. “Think you might continue this hobby back in Chicago?” he teased.

Patrick shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’m doing it here.”

——

They worked side by side pulling up weeds. It was better now that Jonny was here to point out the trickier weeds so that Patrick didn’t accidentally unearth the turnips growing wild in the garden before they were ready.

From the corner of his eye, Patrick watched him as he worked, his bare shoulders gleaming with sweat. He liked the way Jonny’s muscles moved, and then tried to drag his attention away.

Such thoughts had often popped up through the years, taking root like the dandelions lining the front walkway, but it was only now that Patrick was really allowing himself to think them. Jonny was— Jonny had—

He’d always been there, hovering at the edge of Patrick’s consciousness, from the time they were thirteen and playing together with the Junior Flyers to their third Stanley Cup win, and all the losses and disappointments and victories in between. 

Patrick took a slow, shuddering breath and curled his fingers through the dirt. 

“Weird,” he heard Jonny mutter, and it took a moment for Patrick to remember that Jonny couldn’t read his thoughts; sometimes Patrick was certain that he could.

“What?” Patrick turned back to Jonny and saw him frowning down at something in his hand. It was small and white, and Patrick shuffled closer to him for a better look.

“A tooth of some sort,” Jonny said, tilting his hand. And so it was, lying there dwarfed by the palm of his hand.

“Halibut,” Patrick mumbled, struck by the strange story he’d heard in town.

Jonny sent him a skeptical look, brows raised. 

“No, no, see,” Patrick started, laughing, “hear me out. Around town, they say that this house used to be owned by a former sailor.”

“What, so he brought fish teeth home with him?”

“Sort of?” Patrick shrugged, and then grinned. “They said his leg was bitten off by a halibut as big as a horse, and that he’d been swallowed whole and had to fight his way out.  _ Then _ when he made it back to the Cape, he obviously couldn’t sail anymore, so he took up blacksmithing. Or something.”

Jonny snorted but didn’t interrupt, so Patrick continued. “And they said that he was spitting out fish teeth for the rest of his life. And his wife made a necklace out of them. And then, years later after he died, his daughter planted the teeth and pulled rubies out of the ground which allowed them to leave town. So y’know. You should be glad I didn’t take up fishing.”

“Christ,” Jonny said. There was laughter in his voice, bubbling underneath the surface and threatening to sprout. Patrick wanted to make him laugh all the time, to see his happiness grow tall like the sweet peas and the old pear tree. “I see why you like it here.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, ducking his head so Jonny wouldn’t see the way his cheeks flushed. “It’s great.”

There was a nudge at Patrick’s shoulder, and he looked up to see Jonny smiling down at him, nose crinkled. “I like it too.”

——

They laid side by side on the old rug before the hearth in the living room. The air was muggy and thick with the rain pounding rhythmically against the roof, and it was too hot for a fire. The power had gone with the first rumblings of thunder in the distance, and there was only the flickering light of the candles set about the mantle to see by.

It was dark otherwise, and late, but neither of them wanted to go to bed.

“Hey, Pat,” Jonny said. His voice was low enough that Patrick barely heard it over the sound of the rain. He turned his head to find Jonny already watching him. His eyes were so dark, and all of him was in shadows which danced across him.

“Yeah?” He was quiet too. Everything was quiet, muted by the storm.

“You are feeling better, right? I know you and Amanda—” He paused. Patrick waited for him to continue, and when he did not, Patrick took a slow deep breath.

He turned his eyes away, staring upward into the darkness.

“I—” He paused. It was hard to find the words, and Patrick had never been good at that. He often didn’t have the words that Jonny did, or know how to use them as effectively. He tried again. “It wasn’t really about Amanda,” he said finally.

They lapsed into silence again, and after a moment Jonny asked, “What was it about, then? We all thought you two were solid.” They’d thought that about Jonny and his girl, too. 

“I love hockey more,” he said, and it echoed around his head, had  _ been _ echoing for awhile now. “And she— She was great, she really was. But, I— I wasn’t, maybe? Or.” He rolled onto his side, his cheek pressed against the rough carpeting. Jonny was still watching him, and he was close enough to reach out and touch, if Patrick wanted.

“I think of everything in relation to the Cup.” 

“Pat,” Jonny breathed.

“It’s always been hockey for me,” Patrick said, barreling through. “From the very beginning, hockey was everything.” Even now, even in the summer and as much as he liked this old house, his feet still itched to step onto the ice, his hands felt empty without the weight of his stick, he was still replaying everything he’d done wrong in his head, how he hadn’t scored enough, how easily the puck had been stripped from him—

He shook his head. “There wasn’t any room for her, in the end. And the worst part is, I don’t really regret it. I’m sorry I hurt her, but—”

“But you don’t miss her.” It wasn’t a question, and they both knew it.

“No.”

Patrick closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Jonny understood, and Patrick had known that he would. Of anyone, Jonny would understand. On a whim, he reached out to clasp his shoulder. “Hey, man. Thanks.”

When he opened his eyes again, he could see the flash of Jonny’s teeth as he smiled. “Any time.”

——

In the morning, there was birdsong, and the droning of insects, and the early golden light brightening the kitchen. When Patrick opened the back door, he could almost taste the sea salt in the air. For a time, he’d forgotten that they were so near to the ocean, but if he looked through the trees, he could catch a glimpse of it on the horizon and the way it glittered in the sun.

It was a good morning, and Patrick felt easy, like something that had been pressing down upon him had been dragged away with the storm. The steps creaked, and Jonny came out to stand beside him, barefoot and shirtless.

“Interesting bird,” Jonny said, nodding toward one of the old oaks. It was the blackbird again, snowy white feathers ruffled as it preened.

“The locals say it’s been here for centuries,” Patrick mused. “It’s a blackbird, turned white from sea foam.”

“Sea foam?”

Patrick grinned up at him. When had he become such a storyteller? Maybe the house inspired it in him. “It was the pet of a boy who was lost at sea. Or maybe it’s his ghost instead.” He nudged Jonny’s shoulder. “Anyway, in town they call this place Blackbird House, sometimes. Named for the ghost bird!”

Jonny laughed, the good laugh that shook his shoulders and crinkled his eyes at the corners. He was bright in the sunshine, and Patrick felt a great welling of affection for him and thought that there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

That was why it was so easy, in that moment, to lean up and kiss him.

Jonny tasted like toothpaste, and his mouth was warm against Patrick’s. There was a soft noise of surprise, low in Jonny’s throat, and there was a beat where they were both still, and then—

Jonny leaned down with a sigh, one hand coming to rest lightly at Patrick’s hip and draw him closer. “Yeah?” he murmured, breath fanning across Patrick’s cheeks. He could feel Jonny’s lips move as he spoke.

Patrick tilted his head back and smiled. “Yeah, Jonny,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”

It came easily, those words, easier than many things had been. As easy as buying this old farmhouse, as easy as anything with Jonny was. He laughed, just for the joy of it, and Jonny’s arms tightened around him.

“It’s always been you,” Patrick said. “More than anyone else, I think.” Kane and Toews, the saviors of the franchise, on and off the ice. It felt as if it were all coming to a head here, years after they no longer needed to carry Chicago on their own.

“Me, too,” Jonny said, and maybe Patrick had always known so. It was hockey for Jonny, as much as it was for Patrick—hockey above everything.

But in some ways, Jonny  _ was _ hockey, was part of the success he’d built and the love he’d cultivated for the game. At first it was the rivalry, always trying to one-up each other, always trying to be better.

It was much the same now, in some ways, but also so different. They grew together in Chicago, like trees twisted tightly, supporting and strengthening each other, and maybe this was still that, only more. 

They had to go back soon, for the convention and to step out onto the ice again, but there was plenty of time yet for this. Patrick pressed closer and rested his cheek against Jonny’s shoulder.

“This isn’t, like, some kind of rebound, Jonny,” Patrick said suddenly. His voice was muffled against Jonny’s neck, and he forced himself to lift his eyes up to Jonny’s face. “You know that, right?”

Jonny was smiling down at him, and he huffed a laugh that Patrick felt vibrating through his chest. “Pat,” he said, eyes still crinkled at the corners. It was a good look on him, and Patrick resolved to make him smile like that all the time. “I’m pretty sure this house is the real rebound.”

Patrick leaned back, mouth dropping indignantly. “Hey! You know what? I take that back. You  _ are _ the rebound, and this house is my true love instead—” 

“True love, eh?” Jonny interrupted. He was really grinning now, face glowing in the morning light. 

“I mean,” Patrick stammered, then stopped. Jonny was laughing again, and had drawn one hand up to card his fingers through Patrick’s curls. He couldn’t help laughing too, caught up in the way Jonny shook with delight. He thought of the sweet peas, and the blueberries, and the pear tree that would reveal your heart’s desire. “All right,” he conceded, leaning up for another kiss. “Definitely true love.”

In the tree above them, the blackbird ran its beak through its feathers and then, satisfied, took flight.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to come find me [on tumblr!](http://ladybirddoes.tumblr.com/)


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